


like breath

by epsiloneridani



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Commander Fox Week, Commander Fox Week 2020, Control Chips, F/M, Gen, Horror, Mind Control, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, brief mention of chuchi/fox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Fox can’t breathe. His chest is on fire. He has to fire. His finger twitches. Somewhere deep inside, he screams. This isn’t right.Fives.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 134





	like breath

“This isn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” Riyo asks, a low murmur against his ear. Her arms are looped around his neck. Her hands cradle the back of his head, now, tilting his gaze to lock with hers as they sway in time. His heart wrenches. Somehow, he stays in step.

“Fox. What is it?”

She smells like something sweet – not quite flowers. He can’t place the scent. Maybe it’s Pantoran. Fox stares blankly at her. “Fox,” Riyo repeats gently. She cups his cheek in her hand and brushes her thumb along his jaw – over, over. He wants to lean into her touch, wants to press his forehead to hers and let that soft fragrance wash over him and sweep him away.

“This isn’t right,” he repeats instead. Croaks. The lights are too bright. He’s used to the lights. The Senate is never for want of a party; there’s some kind of gala going on almost every week. They’re the bane of Fox’s existence: he and Thorn (Thorn is dead, Thorn is dead, he held his broken body to his chest) spend hours coordinating security checkpoints and planning patrol patterns to keep the chance of a successful kidnapping or assassination at a minimum.

“What isn’t right?” she presses, and tilts her head at him. There’s a question in her frown. Not because of the Republic laws that say he has no right to a life? No. Fox blinks desperately.

It’s too bright.

The music swells behind them, mournful and majestic in the same measure. Fox’s head snaps around. Riyo turns him back to her. “ _Cyare_ ,” she whispers, a breath like a prayer. “Talk to me.”

His throat constricts. He shouldn’t be here, at her side. He shouldn’t be here at all. His clothes are too soft, too sharp; golden buttons glint on each of his wrists; there’s a shining line running down the center of his chest. He’d call it a dress uniform, but no, the Republic doesn’t have dress uniforms like this, not for clones. All they get is a dull, drab grey.

He should be in armor, shielded from their stares, shut away by his helmet, surveying alone. Fox takes hold of her shoulders and pushes her back. Riyo’s mouth parts in bewildered protest, but no sound comes out. Her face twists, a scowl, a spiral, and she gives a distorted growl. The music pulses, faster, faster – rising, higher.

Fox stumbles away from her. He can’t breathe. His chest is on fire. He has to fire. His finger twitches. Somewhere deep inside, he screams. This isn’t right.

Fives.

Not-Chuchi reaches for him. In the gleaming bright, the sheen of her nail’s polish is sharp like steel; her fingers are talons. Her smile is sharp – stark.

Not right.

Fox flees. He throws himself through the window and he’s falling, he’s falling, he’s flying, he’s free. His boots find purchase on the wall and magnetize to it, and he skids and slides until he has his balance and can sprint down and on. He runs like he’s running for his life, but he couldn’t say why. He feels the dread shadow, swelling sick and putrid inside. There’s a cloying darkness in his lungs. He tastes blood on his tongue.

“Fox?”

He blinks blearily. The medbay’s lights are bright, white; they bore into his brain. Exon hovers over him, a blurry outline. “Fox,” he calls again. “Can you hear me?”

Fox nods slowly, and eases to sit up. His head is spinning. “Exon,” he whispers, and reaches for him. Exon flinches away.

“What do you remember?” Exon asks. His voice is sharper than Fox has ever heard it.

Fox’s hand falls back to his side. “What?”

“What do you remember?” Exon repeats.

“What do you mean?” Fox demands. “What do I remember about _what?_ ”

“You know what,” Exon shoots back. “What do you remember?”

Fox struggles to his feet. His head is spinning. His hands go to his hips, to his holsters; he finds his pistols there. Draws them. Takes his trembling aim.

“What do you remember?” Exon asks again. His voice is steady. His smile is pleasant. His eyes are empty – a void. “Fox, what do you remember?

 _Fives_.

A ragged howl rips through him. Fox is on his knees, tearing at his hair and clawing at his scalp until the skin breaks and the blood runs free. His mouth is bitter. He tastes bile. His body convulses, once, again, and he heaves, heaves. Can’t breathe. Don’t go. _Rex, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—_

There are tears streaming down his face. Fox doubles over. His helmet is gone. He shouldn’t be cold. He can’t be cold. Coruscant isn’t cold. The landing platform shudders beneath him. He curls his hands into fists. His fingernails drive into his palms. He lifts them, trembling, to his face; there are bruises there, blooming poisonous shades of blue.

“This isn’t right,” Fox whispers, and realizes he can’t hear himself speak. He rasps a breath. It’s harsh in his ears. He opens his mouth and says it again. No words come out.

 _What isn’t?_ that shadow whispers, a rumbling growl. It’s older than time; it burns. Fox writhes. _What isn’t right?_

“Fives,” Fox gasps. His pistols are in his hands. Fives dives. Fox lifts – screams –fights. Rex’s empty stare is burdened, broken; _why couldn’t you take him alive?_

This isn’t right.

 _Vode an_ , Jango told them: brothers all. _Aliit sol’yc_ , Jango told them: family first. Fox clenches his teeth and curls his fingers tighter, mindless of the pulsing ache in his palms. Fives. Fives.

Don’t take him alive.

“He’s my brother,” Fox croaks, a broken plea. The marble is hard beneath his plated knees. Night has fallen on Coruscant; the skyline is distant, alight.

The shadow shifts toward him, covered by its shroud. Its eyes are shaded. Only its ugly, twisted mouth is visible; it curls into a diseased smile.

“He _was_ your brother,” the shadow corrects. “Now he is gone.”

His eyes burn. His cheeks sting. He’s crying. “What did you do to me?” Fox demands, a choked whisper. The shadow stares at him. Hatred wells in Fox’s chest, burning bright. He wants to lunge, to roar, to rise – _tell me why_.

The shadow laughs, a morbid, slithering cackle. “Nothing,” it says. “What was done was done by your hand alone.”

Vode an. Vode an. Fox swallows thickly. “No,” he says hoarsely. “He’s my brother. I wouldn’t.”

“But you did.”

His chest is on fire. He has to fire. He’s so cold. Fox curls trembling fingers around his helmet and pulls it toward him until he can clutch it to his chest. For a moment, he holds it like a lifeline. The suite is dark; the light’s so bright.

If it wasn’t for you, your brother would still be alive.

The helmet hisses and whines. When it seals, it seals like breath.

When it seals, it seals like death.

\--


End file.
